


Test of Time

by notboldly



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massacre, Minor Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Tarsus IV, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:57:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notboldly/pseuds/notboldly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While balancing between two sides of a war, Jim is forced back in time to relive his worst memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Test of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warning: This is not a happy story, and it doesn't have a happy ending.

The small shuttlecraft shook with the force of the nearest explosion, the plume of red and white that resulted from the peculiar mix of chemicals appearing both beautiful and terrifying as the landing controls began to shake. Jim cursed and pulled up, the metal craft jerking itself just high enough to skirt the edge of the hill below, and he knew without looking that Spock was attempting to protect the delicate equipment inside from the motions of their craft. He tried to land a second time, but as with the first, the golden soil below exploded into the sky and scattered across the bow of the shuttle, making it difficult to tell what was land and what was crater. The shuttle creaked with the effort of remaining in the air, and a furiously blinking light warned him that the right thruster was gone, the landing gear damaged.

The ground rose up to meet them, and Jim had just enough time to yell a warning at his First Officer before they landed. Jim, for once, was thankful for the restraint that held him in his seat; he could tell from the series of containers that flew past his immobile form and exploded on the dash that the impact he would have had otherwise would not have been pretty. Even so, as he turned, his first words came out a groan.

“Spock? Are you okay back there?”

“Affirmative.” The voice sounded strained, and Jim saw Spock bracing the equipment with his body; the ties must have broken, and Jim fumbled with the buckle at his waist before rushing back to struggle a new set in place. They had landed with the nose of the shuttle in the ground, and Jim was thankful, more than anything, that he had decided (been forced) to take Spock along. Delicate or not, the equipment would have definitely crushed him. As it was, he was surprised that only a few vials had escaped Spock’s barricade, and he hoped that they weren’t anything crucial.

“Dammit! What the hell was that? I thought the battlegrounds were twenty kilometers away!”

Spock grunted as he too fumbled with the thick vinyl net while attempting to keep the machines in place.

“It would appear, Captain, that the outer perimeter has fallen.”

“Dammit,” Jim snarled again, and it was only through sheer force of will that they managed to stretch the clasp to the damaged hook beside them. The bulky metal and transport containers caused the net to sag dangerously, but thankfully, they held long enough for Jim and Spock to emerge from the shuttle and examine their surroundings. A dented metal sign, darkened from the ash that still flew in the air, proclaimed them to be just outside of M’azapek, the capital city.

It was the rendezvous point Jim and the general had agreed upon, but as evidenced by the scattered debris and the smoky taste of burnt cloth in the air, the rebel forces had found them first. Jim didn’t want to know if the scent of scorched people would follow, and so he pulled his shirt up to cover his nose, glancing around for a place to stash their cargo for the time being, knowing it couldn’t stay in the damaged shuttle. The rebel forces—clearly suspecting sabotage—had already tried to shoot them down; he didn’t even want to imagine what would happen if they came across the contraband and assumed the Federation had chosen to assist the general’s occupation force. While the truth was that the medical supplies in the shuttle had been for both sides—the Federation’s way of not interfering although Jim hated supporting the conflict—any one of the more advanced machines could be interpreted as a weapon, and never mind the way a shuttle would appear to a pre-warp culture. It was bad news all around, he thought, but for the children and civilians at least, Jim had agreed to deliver vaccines and gauze and other basic supplies so desperately needed, thinking that they could at least bring the casualty level down to only soldiers.

He should have figured something would happen. In Jim’s experience, the problem with getting involved in a civil war was that neither side really appreciated it, and they told him that, loud and clear. Often, they said it with bombs, and this time was no different; another shell dropped from the sky about fifty meters away, and Jim and Spock quickly ducked as a shower of rocks flew towards them. Jim was relieved that the aliens hadn’t discovered nuclear weapons yet, but the truth was, he didn’t like where they stood now, even against such primitive weapons.

“Captain.”

Jim glanced at Spock, and he saw him pointing to a glade not too far away that seemed completely unmarred by the conflict they were embroiled in. Jim would have said it was weird, but then, he wasn’t prepared to be picky; they had to get out of firing range before one of those shells got lucky. With only survival in mind, they stood from their cover and darted back into the shuttle, preparing to lift off as best as they could under the circumstances; it wouldn’t be comfortable and the ride would be composed of a series of bursts into the air followed by crashes, but they could make it. They could.

Something that wasn’t a stone hit the shuttle, and they barely had time to duck low into the corner before the bomb went off, blasting the windows out with a heat and force that sent the entire craft deeper into the crater. Jim thought it might have killed him if Spock hadn’t jumped in front of him, but he wasn’t entirely grateful for small favors when a large yellow hand reached into the dented frame and tugged them out.

Apparently, the glade they had wanted to reach was the base of the rebel forces, and they weren’t too happy to be found. The bombs actually _were_ from the general’s forces.

Jim glanced at the equipment that followed when he and Spock were pushed aside, and he tried to explain.

“Okay, I know this looks bad—”

The alien leader—Dashal? Daval?—said something quick and angry, and the translator on Jim’s wrist squealed, broken. He looked to Spock, and Spock murmured out a few words in the stilted language of the Saradori people, attempting to communicate what could have been apologies or explanations or both.

An expression of rage crossed the leader’s face in response, and he raised one arm, the one that held a twenty inch long cylinder with a glittering golden swirl at its center. Jim wasn’t sure what it was for, but the end was suddenly pointed at Spock and his mind said “weapon;”  when the leader jerked his thick yellow hand in a quick sideways gesture, Jim correctly interpreted it as “move or else” and complied with the command. The threat of being blasted with the strange weapon was enough that he and Spock stumbled over the unfamiliar terrain until golden sand became the silver grass of the glade they’d seen before and then, surprisingly, thick gray ash. A quick glance back towards the shuttle showed that—curiously—none of the equipment followed, and Jim felt a surge of apprehension as they were shoved and dragged across the vacant clearing, past lopsided tents and weapon stores extensive enough to make Jim nervous.

There wasn’t a soul in sight.

“Spock,” Jim whispered, and he was rewarded by a quick nod that showed that he had also noticed the desertion. The guards thankfully ignored them—no doubt assuming that the alien chatter was irrelevant—but Jim didn’t miss the quick look their leader shot them, nor did he miss the abrupt and seemingly unplanned change in direction.

If the empty camp was unnerving, the pit they came to was even more so. Jim would have said it looked like a volcano, the frayed and charred rim holding a smoldering mass of unfamiliar golden liquid about twenty feet below them, but there was no heat, no smoke, only light—blisteringly bright light. What was worse, however, was the thin black boardwalk that extended from one side to the center, unsteady and old, and the way the guards twitched and scampered away like frightened children.

There was a bark of a command issued, and a firm hand shoved Jim between his shoulder blades, causing him to stumble an unwilling foot forward. Another shove, this time in the direction of the plank, and Jim got the message. He turned, expression incredulous.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me. I’m not _walking the plank_ into a _volcano_!”

Dashal’s lips twisted, and he jerked his weapon threateningly, spitting out hurried, angry syllables.

“Captain,” Spock murmured. “Commander Dashal says that this is a test of worth. He promises that those of good character will come to no harm from the…ceremony.”

Jim scowled, and when a guard tried once again to push him forward, he shrugged his grip off.

“I don’t believe it. They catch us transporting goods to the other side, and they’re not going to hurt us? A rickety bridge over a volcano seems like an awfully convenient _accident_.”

“It does seem unlikely that we will be released afterwards. I do not see what other options we have, however.” Spock looked at him with serious eyes. “If we do not comply, they will shoot us where we stand.”

Jim didn’t need to be told that; the way the guards eyed the two of them like they were damaged weapons, dangerous and untrustworthy, was evidence enough that they were itching to dispose of them quickly and be away from this place. Dashal, however, only continued to gesture insistently at the boardwalk. Jim would have admired his persistence…if it weren’t for the weapons trained on him and Spock.

“Spock.”

Dashal spoke again, clearly impatient. Jim finished hurriedly, half afraid that they would just push him in the blasted volcano, and all afraid that they would decide to push _Spock_ instead.

“Ask him if we both have to do this ceremony, or if only one would be enough.”

Spock shot him a suspicious look; after following Jim’s orders (more or less) for over half a year, he no doubt knew what his Captain’s decision would be. Nonetheless, he relayed Jim’s question.

Dashal clearly hesitated before answering, and his reply was short. Spock did not look pleased.

“He says that would be acceptable, if the one to participate is of the highest rank. However, Captain—”

“No.” Jim knew what he was thinking; in order to operate more stealthily on the surface, they had chosen to wear simple dark traveling clothes with no Federation or Starfleet emblems, and therefore no obvious rank. Spock clearly thought to take his place in whatever was to come, and Jim could not help but twist his lips wryly as he began to move forward.

Well, there was apparently at least one thing that would get him to walk the plank into a volcano.

There was a scuffle behind him, and Jim didn’t have to look to know that Spock had attempted to stop his progress and been detained by the fearful guards. Jim barked out the only word of Saradori he’d had time to learn—the direct meaning was “switch,” and he’d learned it primarily because it sounded like a particularly dirty Andorian word—and it did not make sense in context. Still, his tone must have said it all, because there was a short grunt of affirmation, followed by Spock’s quiet voice.

“Captain, this is not wise.”

Jim stopped when his toes just touched the edge of the precipice.

“It’s okay, Spock. Just ask him what I need to do.”

“I should think it would be obvious, Captain.” Ah, there was the Spock he knew and—best not think of what else. “Walk across. The Commander informs me that you will be unable to reach the end if we bear them ill-will.”

“…that’s it?” Jim wondered what sort of power the liquid held that the natives placed so much faith in its effects, and he decided he would rather not know. If it had some sort of radiation, Bones would identify and treat it when he returned, and he _would_ return.

“Yes, Captain.”

Spock sounded exasperated with him as he so often did, and anything else that Jim might have wished in his voice was forgotten as he took his first step. The boardwalk shook, showing its age in the uneven planks of ancient wood beneath his feet and the way the chains creaked; they were also made of wood, and Jim wondered almost absently if there was some significance to it. After months of walking only on metal or earth, however, Jim could not help but feel uneasy.

As Jim walked, his discomfort increased, the fringes of his mind dulling with panic. He shuffled a foot forward and then another, slowly, easily; as he moved, he felt dizzy, sick, like he’d been inhaling fumes. He imagined that was, but that alone could not explain the way his mind kept drifting to things he’d rather have forgotten. His brother, last seen when he was still a child. His mother, who had watched his promotion with sad eyes and cried on his shoulder when he refused her request to stay. His father, who he would have given anything to meet, even—at one time—his life. His time on Tarsus…but that was something that not even alien pools could make him reflect on.

Jim had moved forward only four feet when the bridge began to shake, the creaking increasing to an eerie scream as an unfelt wind caused the structure to sway dangerously. There were no handrails, nothing to grab except the chains, and Jim grasped them until splinters split his hands. Still the planks under his feet rocked, rattling with a force that he would _love_ to hear Spock explain, and he saw the light below his feet grow brighter, hypnotic.

 _I’m going to fall_ , he thought, resigned. _I’m going to fall off this damn thing. Maybe the Saradori are right to be scared._

Just as Jim felt himself begin to slip, his feet and hands losing their purchase on the suddenly slanted wood, a firm hand closed around his upper arm, the thin fingers leaving bruises and heat. Jim smiled and forced his gaze from the golden light, looking up into Spock’s calm, serious face.

“Where are the guards?”

“Two of them are unconscious. Commander Dashal fired at me several times but stopped when he saw I was running toward you rather than away.”

Jim shook his head slightly as Spock shifted, his fingers shifting to a firmer position under his arm. It hurt, somewhat, but Jim was hardly in a position to complain, especially when he saw how tangled Spock was with the chains at his feet; it was the closest thing they had to rope.

“Fortunate.” He glanced down again as the bridge trembled once more, puzzled as to why Spock had not pulled him to safety, and when he looked up again, he saw Spock attempting to hide his grimace of effort. There were lines of strain in his neck and hands, but Jim knew he did not weigh so much—something was wrong.

“How’s your grip?”

“Adequate, but there is a curiously strong gravitational force at this time.” Jim had suspected as much; he felt it, like the weight of their shuttle was hanging from his feet.

“You mean something’s trying to pull me down?”

“Correct.”

“Let go, Spock.” Jim suspected he would be torn in two between the sure presence of his first officer and the alien force, and was there anything so bad about falling in? At least Spock would be safe, and the situation made it readily clear that only one of them could be saved.

Spock looked appalled by the very thought.

“No.” Stubborn Vulcan; he hated to lose almost as much as Jim did, even at a losing game.

“You’ll be pulled in,” Jim warned, but Spock only tightened his grip impossibly.

“My grip is steady.”

No sooner had the words passed his lips than an unexpected and strong force jerked the bridge, forcing Spock to either release Jim or be shaken from his unsteady perch atop the planks.

Because he was Spock, he didn’t let go of Jim’s arm, and with no warning, they fell towards the glowing pond below.

********

Jim hit solid ground with a grunt, landing on top of what might have been sand but definitely wasn’t the bright liquid he’d been expecting. He was dazed for a moment as his mind tried to reconcile the fact that he was now alone, lying on red-brown dirt instead of falling through the nothingness that had been under his feet just moments ago; he struggled to rise, and the motions were slow, heavy. He felt as if his body had suddenly grown too large for his muscles to support, and as he shifted, he felt rocks roll off his shoulders and back, explaining the extra weight. Jim was confused…no, confusion was putting it lightly. He was baffled, a little frightened, and a whole lot surprised. He must have been transported, of course, somewhere, but he hadn’t thought the Saradori had that sort of capability, and he didn’t know why they’d send him anywhere—by all accounts, on his own—when they had him so obviously under their power. And Spock…where was Spock?

Jim jolted at the thought, attempted to stand, and collapsed. It was strange; he felt no pain except the residual soreness from hitting the hard ground, but his limbs still felt heavy. A head injury, maybe?

“Captain?”

Jim rolled at the voice, surprised and excited at the prospect of not being alone in the strange surroundings. As he flipped onto his back and then attempted to push himself to his feet a second time, small pebbles and sharp rocks dug into his skin, the feel of it coarse and well-remembered. In retrospect, he’d probably spent more time lying in the dirt than a captain should have, but not even that sudden wry thought could distract him from the blessedly familiar shape that was now helping him to his feet.

“Captain, are you injured?”

Jim dusted the dirt from his dark pants, smiling determinedly at Spock’s neutral face.

“Nothing I can’t handle. What happened?”

Spock blinked at him, and a shadow of an expression crossed his face before it disappeared under Vulcan willpower.

“You do not recall?” Jim shook his head; he remembered light and falling and liquid, but nothing else.

“We were dislodged from the Saradori bridge over what I believe to be Mount D’Atori. As D’Atori has been known to have curious properties, including spontaneous teleportation, our current circumstances seem to support this.”

Jim smiled wryly, a mere twist of his lips, and he resisted the urge to clap Spock on the back at the certain pronouncement. The one time he had tried such a friendly gesture—years ago, it felt like, although he knew it had only been months—Spock had looked at him with obvious surprise and confusion. As entertaining as it had been, he felt it was hardly conducive to the current situation.

“We were transported because we…fell into the volcano?”

Spock nodded shortly and shrugged as much as a Vulcan could; Jim would have been surprised at the emotionalism of the act if he hadn’t suspected it was as much to remove the dust from Spock’s shoulders as anything.

“Yes. I am uncertain how we were separated before landing here, but I awakened thirteen minutes ago, roughly twenty-five point six two meters away. It is fortunate you awoke.”

“Fortunate.” Jim shook his head and forced a smile, partly because Spock sounded about as happy—and resigned—about Jim’s lack of demise as he would about someone altering his schedule on the _Enterprise,_ and partly because it was amusing, in a way. Despite the tentative friendship Jim sometimes convinced himself they had, he knew that it was duty more than anything that made Spock save him, mission after mission. Jim’s own motives for caring about Spock’s life were…less professional.

Jim shook his head to clear the thoughts, making a show of looking at the ground.

“So…any idea _where_ we were transported?”

Spock raised an eyebrow, and Jim knew why. However they had been transported and by what, if it was long-range, they could be on another continent if not a different planet entirely.

“I am unfamiliar with the current foliage and terrain. And you, Captain?”

At the calm question, Jim looked around, quickly absorbing his surroundings. The red-brown dirt he knew already, and the addition of the barest hints of gnarled plant life suggested a desert, one without much life and possibly artificially reproduced. He had not expected such a place to exist on the planet of T’Sher given that scans showed the land and water both as teeming with life, but he was hardly qualified to make those sorts of calls. However, it was the staggering cliffs on the horizon that made Jim realize they were no longer on the smooth surface of the original planet, or at least not in their right minds if they were.

Because Jim…Jim knew those cliffs, and he knew this place.

 “Spock. Do you see the cliffs?” Jim kept his voice calm with effort, and he was certain that if he’d had a mirror, he would have seen a cold, blank face looking back at him. There was no point in panicking, he told himself, not if he really was just imagining it. He couldn’t think of why he would conjure up the place of his nightmares on a routine mission, but…well, stranger things had happened.

Spock raised an eyebrow, looking like he wanted to find a medical scanner and determine if Jim had somehow lost his mind over the past few minutes.

“Of course, Captain. They are several hundred meters high, and of a rather impressive shape.”

“Do you think it could be possible to recreate them? I mean, add a model of them to another location, or construct them through other means? On short notice?”

Jim knew he sounded desperate, irrational, and he saw Spock take an almost unconscious step back before he answered succinctly.

“Unlikely.”

“But are you sure? _Could_ this still be T’Sher?”

In response, Spock dropped down to his knees and ran his fingers through the soil. Jim blinked at him, trying to convince his mind that his dignified First Officer wasn’t, in fact, kneeling at his feet and digging in the ground, but the denial halted abruptly when Spock’s raised his now dusty fingers to his lips.

“Are you… _eating dirt_?”

“I am identifying the soil composition through the only means at my disposal,” was Spock’s only reply before he closed his eyes, clearly focusing only on the taste of the granules in his mouth. Jim waited, and he was relieved when Spock delicately picked the soil off his tongue before standing.

“Due to the high concentration of iron and copper, the density of minerals beneath us, and the seeming lack of the distinct silicone soils native to T’Sher, I believe we are no longer on that planet, and certainly not on the same continent. Also, the foliage around us seems to be native to Earth’s deserts, implying a colonized planet, and I have no record of the Federation being involved in the Saradoris’ agriculture. I have calculated the probability that we are still on T’Sher at less than point zero zero zero four percent.”

Jim listened to the response intently, and by the time Spock had finished, a feeling of nausea had risen in his throat and his lips had twisted into something he knew wasn’t a pleasant expression.

“That little, huh?”

“Is something wrong, Captain?”

Spock looked at him oddly when he spoke. Jim would have said the expression was concerned, but the fact that they were still on a very dangerous mission persuaded him that he was imaging it; Spock showing _concern_ for his impulsive and often foolish Captain while on-duty was about as likely as them still being on T’Sher.

And so, convinced the question was polite at best, Jim didn’t answer, not implicitly.

“I just know where we are, Mister Spock.”

Jim looked around at his surroundings, and he tried not to remember the way blood had splashed against the red sand. It was exactly as cold as he remembered.

“Welcome to Tarsus IV.”

********

Spock, unsurprisingly, didn’t respond to the hollow pronouncement with anything other than a professional nod and his own intent inspection of their surroundings. His eyes moved from the dirt to the plants to the sky with a quick flickering gaze, the same gaze he used whenever he examined an experiment or—occasionally—an example of the human folly that _Enterprise_ was apparently ruled by. Jim watched him just as closely because he didn’t need to study his surroundings to know where they were, and because Spock was both a comfort and a difficulty in this place. Whatever their situation, Spock would undoubtedly be an asset when it came to survival, and his presence alone was enough to calm Jim even without his hidden affection for the Vulcan…but Spock was ever a scientist, and he would want to know how Jim recognized this place in particular after visiting hundreds of planets.

As if hearing his thoughts even across the space between them, Spock immediately turned to him with the barest of frowns on his face.

“I agree with your assessment. How did you come to recognize the world of a failed colony?”

 _Failed colony._ Well, that was certainly the most tactful thing Jim had ever heard it called.

“I spent almost four months here. I was one of the survivors of the massacre. My brother, too.”

“You are not listed as a past resident.”

Jim’s lips twitched reflexively, but there was no amusement in it. Leave it to Spock to need to root out _all_ of his dirty secrets.

“My mom thought it was best if people didn’t know. It’s not like it mattered at the time anyway; Kodos was dead and burned by then.”

Jim didn’t know how to explain the reasoning behind it. Would it do more harm than good if he said that in light of the circumstances of his birth, his mom didn’t want it to look like death followed him everywhere he went? On reflection, he could almost understand the worry; with the addition of Vulcan’s destruction just eight months ago with him less than a light-year away, it certainly looked like he doomed everyone around him. Jim really didn’t blame his mom for being superstitious or overly cautious…and if it sometimes hurt a little to know that she _did_ believe in his rotten influence in the universe around him, well, no one had to know.

Spock, of course, was too practical to give credence to such things as superstitions, and so his only reaction to Jim’s secret was a single nod as the information was stored with the rest of his vast knowledge. No condolences. No pity. No reflection. It was as if Jim had admitted to being a survivor of childhood bullying rather than one of the most gruesome massacres in Federation history, and the matter was dismissed just as easily.

Jim was grateful. And when Spock spoke, logically, coolly, Jim knew there was no one else he’d rather bare his dark past to.

“It would be logical that, as a past resident, you decide our next move.”

“Yeah, sure.” Jim wanted to do nothing of the sort, but as he glanced furtively to the cliffs to his right, he saw the shadows of memories he wanted even less. If he showed hesitation or weakness now, he doubted he’d recover enough to be any use to his first officer, and he needed to be. “The old settlement shouldn’t be very far from here. It was less than twelve miles due east of those cliffs.” He pointed unnecessarily in an attempt to distract Spock from the bloodless pallor of his face.

“Of course, I doubt there’s much left. There was a terrible fire immediately after the massacre; it killed seventeen people, including Kodos, and what buildings that weren’t destroyed were disassembled and taken to settle elsewhere. But…there should be some shelter, possibly some supplies.”

Spock nodded shortly before he folded his arms behind his back, and the familiar stance steadied Jim in a way giving orders did not.

“A sound plan, Captain. Are you fit to travel?”

As much as Jim wanted to deny it, he nodded, and without another word, Spock made a quarter turn and began walking at a brisk but manageable pace for a human. Jim didn’t question how it was that Spock knew which direction was east with no sun and only unfamiliar stars and sickly pale moonlight to guide him because it didn’t matter; Jim trusted him indefinitely.

They walked in silence for several minutes before Jim’s instinctive distaste for quiet made itself known.

“So. Spock. Read any good books lately? How’s Uhura?”

Jim tasted bitterness on his tongue at the question, but he swallowed it away; now was hardly the time. Spock, of course, gave the expected response, and began to walk faster.

“Both of those are illogical questions, as you are aware that my schedule permits very little leisure time and you speak to the Lieutenant as often as I.”

Jim shoved his hands in his pockets as he lengthened his stride, bringing him alongside Spock with little effort. His voice was deliberately carefree.

“Just trying to make conversation.”

Spock darted a quick, disproving glance in his direction, and Jim smiled cheerfully in response; when Spock looked away and spoke, his voice was brusque.

“I suggest we discuss our situation, and leave frivolities for another time.”

Jim continued to smile, but somewhere between the current hill and the last, the humor had disappeared.

“There won’t be another time, Spock. It’s not like we hang out.” And Jim had tried—oh lord, had he tried. Most people probably thought he was crazy for putting so much effort into befriending a person who was often considered cold at best, but for reasons Jim would rather not reveal, he knew there was more behind that Vulcan façade.

And what was there was amazing.

“What humans describe as “hanging out” would be inappropriate for Vulcans, in most cases. I do not find your company unpleasant, but I have cultural obligations that take precedence.”

Jim wondered what that meant, and if it had anything to do with the fact that he harbored inappropriate feelings for Spock, feelings so hot and strong that they kept him up at night and made times like this—with just the two of them, no matter the situation—almost impossible to bear. Sometimes he wondered if Spock knew, and that his repeated rejections of Jim’s invitations were attempts to let him down gently without acknowledging the issue openly; other times he reminded himself that ignorance and avoidance were illogical and un-Vulcan.

Walking as quickly as they were now, though, it sure seemed like Spock was avoiding something; Jim had to hurry to catch up with Spock’s longer strides and inhuman speed, but even though he needed all his breath for their speed-walking, he still refused to let the conversation go.

“Spock, I asked you to play _chess_. I want to get to know you outside of the few times we’re stuck in sickbay together or stranded on some planet together.”

Jim gestured to their surroundings unnecessarily, and Spock didn’t spare him a glance. However, when he stumbled, Spock reached out a hand to jerk him back to steadiness, so at least he cared enough to make sure he didn’t fall face first in the dirt.

As soon as he was balanced, Spock pulled his hand away as if prolonged exposure meant he would catch Jim’s clumsiness, and then he continued walking.

“All relevant personal information concerning my family and myself is stored in the computer databanks, and you have clearance.”

Jim sighed, and for a few minutes, they traveled in silence. If they had been stranded on any other planet, Jim could have pretended that they were just out for a brisk stroll or part of a standard landing party, but everything—from the plants to the sky to the cliffs behind them—made the idle delusion impossible.

“That’s not what I meant. Do Vulcans really not have friends?”

Jim’s voice had gone soft towards the end, and Spock didn’t say a word for several minutes. When he did finally speak, it was clear that he had dismissed the topic, and with good reason.

“Captain, I believe that is smoke.”

Jim could see it, just over the horizon…just, if he wasn’t mistaken, where the old settlement had been, and he cursed.

“Dammit! Just what we need to deal with when _Enterprise_ is a hundred light-years away; illegal colonization.”

Since the massacre, the planet had been off-limits to settlement, as much because of bad memories as the fact that the planet itself had been difficult to inhabit and too dependent on supplies to be seriously considered again. It retrospect, Jim was really not surprised that those unable to get the proper licensure for the more successful planets would choose this one; after all, it wasn’t like the Federation thought it was worth guarding.

To Jim, though…that new settlement had risen up to stand in his memories, over the graves of friends and people who had actually considered him worth a damn in his youth, and such disrespect—to use the _same_ _site_ when the entire planet was composed of the same damned desert—was unforgiveable.

Jim began to stomp forward, forgetting his own misgivings in the face of his anger, and Spock caught him by the elbow before he could go more than a few angry steps.

“Captain, despite our lack of uniform, we are still very clearly outsiders. It would be best to approach with caution, and forestall any…hostilities.”

Jim knew that; of course he knew that. He had just…forgotten.

 _Something’s wrong with me_. He knew what it was: memories. Jim had never managed them well.

“You’re right, Spock,” he sighed before glaring once more at the thin wisp of smoke that shot into the clear sky. They were not close enough to be able to distinguish the light of its source from that of the stars, but Jim could tell that it was a large fire, most probably too large to be on purpose.

If the settlement was burning, they had to help, no matter how illegal its existence may have been or how angry it made him.

“We’d better hurry. If we can get there before daybreak, maybe we’ll be able to aid them somehow.”

Spock nodded, and once again, they began to walk.

********

By the time the familiar white sun peaked over the bare surface of the planet, the settlement was well in view, tucked snuggly into the shallow valley in order to maximize their water supply. The buildings were clean, rectangular, and mud brown—the result of artificial wood siding, an attempt to make them seem more welcoming—and the spots of agricultural crops spread out in a twisting maze of colors, from the red of hearty cabbage to the yellow of Pervarian beets. At the sight, Jim felt another brief surge of anger; they had even used the same _layout_ as the previous settlement, and there was no good reason for it when it was clear that everything—from the buildings to the irrigation—had been built new. Jim wondered briefly why they had gone through the trouble of digging up the old pipelines, but before he could voice the oddity, he was distracted by the smoky taste of burnt plants.

At least the settlement had gotten control of the fire, although, by the looks of things, not before it had taken out a third of the southward crops. Lightening storms, he would bet his life on it, and the familiarity of the minor disaster was uncanny; when Jim had been to Tarsus before, there had also been a devastating lightening storm.

“Okay, so we’re going to stick to our story, right? We were vacationing on a pleasure planet a few light-years away, and our ship was struck by an asteroid. We beamed down immediately with few supplies, and we are desperately in need of a communications device. If they have any instruments, they should be able to verify that there are no orbiting ships.”

Although they were still fifty meters away from the entrance to the settlement, Jim’s voice was a whisper; he knew how well desert winds could carry sound.

“Indeed, Captain. Need I remind you, however, that Vulcans find lying difficult and distasteful, and as such, our skills are less than convincing?”

Spock had informed him of this ‘defect’ no less than eight times over the months of their mission, three in the past several hours, and—despite the inconvenience of it—Jim couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about his first’s ingrained honesty.

“Fine, then. Let me do the talking, and you just nod along when I signal you to, alright?”

Spock didn’t look happy about it, but he nodded his agreement as they hesitantly began to move forward, the soft sand clinging to their boots as the slight dampness of the night faded.

“Very well. To what name am I to answer to?”

Jim would have laughed, but his throat was dry and his lips chapped, and the situation too serious even for his sometimes-questionable humor.

“Pick one; like I know any Vulcan names.”

Spock nodded but did not supply his false identity; Jim, having decided his would be “Jim King” due to a private joke of his, rather hoped it wouldn’t be unpronounceable. If he’d had his way, Spock would always be Spock, but his first was right; some names were too recognizable, and a Jim and a Spock visiting an illegal colony together would be beyond suspicious.

“Captain, there is the problem of being recognized from the news broadcast after the destruction of Vulcan, and subsequent media attention.”

It was another point Spock had raised during the few times they’d engaged in conversation over the past few hours, and Jim still saw no way to avoid it.

“I’ll handle it,” Jim sighed, and then he smiled softly to himself. “And Spock, you’d better call me Jim.”

Alright, despite everything, Jim could admit he was privately pleased about the manufactured intimacy that resulted from their story of friends vacationing together. As unpleasant as the situation was likely to be, at least Jim would have a memory of Spock saying his name instead of the respectful—and distant—“captain.”

“If you insist…Jim.”

Jim smiled into his shoulder as they approached the sign for the outskirts of the town, but as soon as he read the black print lettering, the expression faded.

“What the hell?”

The sign for the Tarsus settlement was eerily familiar, and Jim would have said it wasn’t just similar, it was _identical_ , if it hadn’t been for the gleaming look of the metal and the coat of paint that was still fresh enough to leave a sickening, plastic smell in the air. The last time Jim had seen a sign like that— _exactly like that_ , his panicked mind insisted—he had stepped over its twisted remains on his way to leaving this cursed planet.

 “Spock.”

Spock glanced at him and then at the sign that boldly proclaimed this settlement as “the first of many.” He showed none of the nerves that Jim felt snapping along his skin, and why should he? To Spock it was just another sign.

It even had the same graffiti that Jim’s thirteen-year-old self had so kindly added. Or similar graffiti; there were some things that even his nightmares couldn’t remember, but for some reason, Jim would have bet it was the exact same, despite the fact that it too was freshly painted.

 _You’re losing your mind, kiddo_. Jim thought the voice sounded like Pike, or Bones, or any other of half a dozen people who knew about Jim’s complete and unedited past. And maybe, just maybe, the voice was right.

But he didn’t think so.

They passed the sign in suddenly apprehensive silence, and Jim’s necessary caution became vigilance as they approached the gaping and flimsy— _familiar_ —entryway. The old man watching the gate eyed them warily as he waved them in—Jim didn’t recognize him, thank God, but the small favor was lost, because it was obvious that the man was _human_. And a human settlement, here, meant that these were either people from _his_ planet, flaunting the no-settlement law, or…there was no ‘or.’

Jim forced a smile at the shriveled face as they passed, and Spock gave an almost cordial nod, looking for all the world like he felt none of the tension his companion was throwing off; as soon as they were past the border, however, Jim wished they’d taken their chances in the desert.

It was familiar like the sign, too similar, but it _couldn’t_ be. Didn’t time travel require a black hole?

Jim heard a laugh to his right, the sound too loud, like it came from someone who smiled often but laughed rarely. The memory came even before he had a chance to turn.

 _What’s so funny, old lady_?

_Nothing, kid. You just reminded me that I left the oven on._

Jim knew who he would see before his eyes locked onto the slim, bent form. Her face was as smooth as an old painting in the early light, but Jim didn’t see it. She had baby-sat him once; the entire time, he’d tried to convince her that he was old enough to be on his own, but unlike his uncle, she had never caved.

The last time he’d seen her, she had been lying on the ground, dark lines of blood making her face look like cracked pottery.

“Jim?”

Jim didn’t know he’d swayed until he bumped into Spock’s solid form, and he didn’t know just how shocked he looked until he saw Spock’s face. There was something there—concern or curiosity, he wasn’t sure—but it was _something_ , and that something wasn’t professional at all.

Jim swallowed, but when he spoke, his voice was still raspy.

“Spock. That’s…that’s _Hoshi Sato._ ”

Spock looked startled by the pronouncement, but he obediently glanced in the direction Jim had been staring before he said anything. When he turned back, his eyes were skeptical.

“The similarity is remarkable.”

Jim didn’t know how to explain it.

“Not similarity, Spock. Either I’ve lost my mind, or that’s her. And that’s not all; all of it, this settlement, the buildings, the gate, the _sign_ …it’s all the same.”

Spock looked at him dubiously, but Jim saw his eyes dart from side to side, seeing everything.

“Time travel has never been successfully achieved.” The words were brisk, professional, and exactly what Jim needed to hear.

“With one exception.” Jim felt his lips twist into an humorless smile. “You said it yourself, Spock. If you eliminate the impossible…”

Jim didn’t finish the statement, but he could see that Spock had accepted the point easily; if he wondered how a human could remember his words after all these months, he didn’t say anything, choosing instead to nod sharply.

“Yes, I see. You are certain?”

Jim glanced around him again, forcing a smile when a young couple stared at him; he must have been white as a ghost, but Jim thought the stares should have been reversed. That was what the people around him were, after all—living ghosts.

“It’s either that or some kind of replica pulled directly from my mind, but I swear, Spock, my memories never extended to the type of _dirt_.”

Spock seemed to consider it for a moment before nodding briskly. He didn’t flinch when Jim slung an arm across his shoulders, turning the heated discussion into the facade of a friendly, if intense, chat with a single motion, and Spock glanced down at him, leaning close enough to whisper.

Jim wished he could have enjoyed it, but under the circumstances, he barely noticed.

“Very well. What do you suggest we do?”

That, at least, was easy, as easy as Spock’s acceptance. If Jim had worried about mentioning their rank and affiliation before, he was doubly cautious now; after all, in this time, Jim was thirteen, Spock still a teenager, and no one would believe time travel was the reason Starfleet would have no record of them.

“Continue with the plan. But…if this is Tarsus, _the_ Tarsus, then it must be before the massacre—I remember that fire from before. And if it’s before the massacre…” Jim trailed off, going over the time scheme in his head.

_A day or less before the problem appears, a week before the situation gets critical, just nine days before the end of it all…_

Jim’s thoughts were interrupted by Spock looking as close to incredulous as a Vulcan could, and at so near a distance, the expression was obvious.

“You are suggesting that we tamper with the natural timeline.”

Jim was not deterred by the obvious distaste in Spock’s voice; he had long since given up trying to change himself for anyone, even Spock.

“Four thousand people died, Spock,” he said softly, earnestly. “That has to be worth something when it might be possible to save them. Save everyone.”

“Jim, the consequences could be dire. Even if the continued lives of these people do not alter events as we know them, your own history must be considered. Without the person you became, Earth would have likely been destroyed.”

Spock was probably right, too, at least when it came to the possible ramifications of having four thousand extra bodies in the universe, but Jim couldn’t see how life was ever bad. Whatever saving them changed, it _had_ to be for the better.

But Jim just snorted, saying none of this.

“It’s Tarsus, Spock. Trust me, that’s a whole lot of memories I’d rather do without.”

Spock looked at him quickly, as though surprised by the softly self-mocking tone, and then he glanced away, down, at the ground.

“Then I ask again, what do you suggest we do?”

Jim patted him once on the shoulder, and then he pulled away, hoping he looked as confident as he sounded about everything.

“Just follow my lead.”

Jim wasn’t sure what he was doing until he’d taken the seven or eight steps towards the aged woman he had spotted just moments ago, and he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do until his hand was tapping her quickly on the shoulder. He felt Spock watch them both as she turned.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

“Yes? Can I help you?” Polite friendliness; what little he remembered of Hoshi Sato in her last days told him that she was cautious, surprisingly so for someone with such a friendly face. Her hair was as long as he remembered and as gray as _Enterprise_ ’s hull, except the last time Jim had seen her, he hadn’t known that.

He smiled, and wondered if he looked at all familiar to her, similar to the boy she had known. Her expression stayed distant.

“I’ve recently arrived from the Federation Department of Agriculture. I understand you’ve been having crop troubles?”

The suspicion melted into open relief, and she shifted her purse on her shoulder and the package in her arms. Jim could tell then that she had been shopping, recently, at the vegetable market, the soft blue of Rigellian celery standing out clearly on the cream-colored parchment.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. That’s not my area, of course, and we’re a small community, so we don’t have many scientists. I supposed you should probably see Governor Kodos. I suppose if you put in an audience request, they can squeeze you in this afternoon. Come on, I’ll help you fill out the paperwork.”

Jim had been hoping for just that, as he was well aware that there was no “Jim King” in the Department of Agriculture. He shifted from foot to foot, wishing he’d come up with a real name, but knowing that if he tried, it would sound more false than the alibi he had already chosen.

As if sensing the conversation was over, Spock was suddenly at his side. Jim determinedly didn’t look at him.

“I do appreciate this, Miss…?”

Hoshi didn’t answer right away, eying Spock with what looked like innocent curiosity before turning back to the conversation.

“Mrs., actually, and it’s Hoshi Sato. My husband’s name is Takashi and you’ll probably run into him, but he’s in the fields right now. It’s the darndest thing, too, all those crops just drying up; I don’t suppose you can help us?”

There was hope in her voice, hope and belief and urgency despite not being an expert in the field of farming, and Jim stretched his fake smile even wider.

“We’ll try, Mrs. Sato.”

“Thank goodness. I was getting worried for a while there.” She heaved a huge sigh of relief, placing one slim, gloved hand over her heart for a moment before she resumed her business-like manner. “What did you say your name was?”

“Jim King. And this is—”

Spock interrupted him smoothly, his right hand automatically forming the ta’al.

“Selek.”

She nodded, seemingly appeased as she returned the gesture, and then she turned back to Jim.

“Nice to meet you. Where are you staying?”

Jim had also not planned on _that_.

“We had not expected to stay, but I’m sure there’s a hotel—”

Hoshi interrupted, her voice allowing no argument.

“Nonsense. My children moved out a long time ago, so I have plenty of room. Besides, Takashi is dying to know what’s wrong even though he doesn’t have the know-how, you know?”

The statement was finished with a grin, and Jim wondered how charming she’d been when she was young.

“I understand, and we appreciate it.” He hoped it wouldn’t come to that; he hoped that explaining the situation to a still-rational man would prevent any need for them to stay, any need for the Saradori volcano to keep them here.

“Mr. King?”

She darted a glance at Spock, who had left their immediate company to study the small market, perhaps wondering how it was that a place so peaceful had disaster in its future.

“Yes?”

“Your…associate. I wasn’t aware there were any Vulcans serving in the more mundane positions in the Federation. They stay pretty isolated, and they always have.”

Jim shrugged, not having an answer to the obvious question.

“Yes, well, Sp— _Selek_ is his own man.” He glanced at the thin form a dozen feet away from them, and he couldn’t help the smallest, barest smile. “I guess he just did what he thought suited him best.”

Hoshi made a doubtful, humming noise in her throat.

“Hmm. Are you really from the Department of Agriculture?”

Jim wondered how he had slipped as he tried his best to look at ease with the question.

“Of course. I was on the Deneva colony three weeks ago, dealing with the aftermath of a virus that nearly wiped out the entire flora population outside one of their main colonies.”

“But your friend wasn’t?”

Jim wondered why that was relevant to their back-story, but Hoshi had the look of someone who had just discovered a juicy piece of gossip, of someone who wanted to know the truth for no reason except she sensed an evasion.

“Of course he was.”

“So he travels with you? _Everywhere_?”

The way she emphasized the last word made Jim laugh as pieces of their conversation formed a picture with painful clarity.

“Nosy old woman. Do you think we eloped?”

She started, clearly guilty of exactly that.

“I’m just surprised that a Vulcan willingly chooses to follow one human around.”

“He doesn’t follow me around. He just keeps me out of trouble.”

Hoshi grinned again, suddenly, with strong white teeth.

“I understand. My husband does the same thing.”

Jim didn’t say anything else on the subject, and thankfully neither did Hoshi. Jim imagined that she wanted to corner Spock and grill him in much the same way, but fortunately she seemed to have a sense of urgency for their situation; she bustled them along the street immediately, towards the extravagant mansion that Jim would recognize anywhere.

As he approached the outer gate, he started to shake, memories rising up too quickly, and he was barely able to suppress his nausea. Kodos had haunted his nightmares for years after the massacre, years after the burnt remains of The Executioner had been found. Whatever else happened, Jim knew he would revisit the worst of them when he returned.

Spock touched his elbow as if he knew, as if he understood, and Jim—despite how much he wanted the touch—shrugged it off, shaking his head when Spock looked at him in concern. Hoshi did not notice the exchange, too busy keeping up a friendly stream of chatter as they approached the outermost guard post, her nerves as palpable as their own and just as justified.

When they reached the string of guards in their sharp red uniforms, Jim politely excused them both, leaving Hoshi—with her familiar face and credibility—to fill out the paperwork while Jim attempted to use the nearest comm unit. It was dead—he’d known it would be, and he’d known, as soon as he realized they’d skipped time, that the electrical storm from before hovered just near enough to interfere with communication systems.

There was only one system that could penetrate it, and even that would be effective only for a day or less: the emergency system in Governor Kodos’ mansion. Somehow, they had to convince the governor to declare an emergency days before the emergency ever manifested.

“Mr. King?”

Jim turned his attention from the comm unit in his hands and the static it emitted, turned to see Hoshi smiling at them both.

“Governor Kodos has an opening in half an hour, if you’re ready.”

Jim wasn’t ready. He would never be ready, not for the face of a monster and not for the bureaucracy that would try to prevent them from saving everyone, but he still nodded, shortly.

Hoshi smiled at them and promised to make them dinner before supplying her address, and wishing them luck.

Jim knew they would need it, and Spock—although he would never have admitted it—looked like he agreed.

********

The mansion was as luxurious inside as out, and Jim—not for the first time in his life—wondered at the senseless waste of resources, the unnecessary gold brocade that trimmed the wallpaper, the imported stone in a _desert_ for God’s sake, and he wondered if it had been Kodos who had designed the building, or if he had just been lucky enough to live there. It had never mattered when he was a kid because the thought had been chased away when the building burned to the ground, but it mattered now, surrounded as they were by cream tile and blue and gold walls, the calm atmosphere at odds with the urgency they felt.

“Mr. King and Mr. Selek, the Governor will see you now.”

The woman who had seated them and who escorted them now was pretty, with softly curling brown hair and a cheerful smile on her small, heart-shaped face. Jim tried not to look at her, remembering the fact that—as she carried a very serious disease—Kodos had deemed her nonessential when the time came.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Jim murmured politely when they stopped outside the office that doubled as Kodos’ bedroom, and she smiled and nodded before returning to her work, leaving them standing outside the wide white doors. There was a shuffling sound inside, the obvious presence of someone working, and Jim reached up to knock.

His hands were shaking, and he lowered them again, grateful when Spock rapped on the wood paneling instead.

The quiet “enter” was smooth, melodic, and perfectly pronounced. Kodos had had speech lessons, once, in preparing for his future in politics.

_Politics. What a laugh._

Jim pushed the door open before the thought could spiral into hysteria, and he saw the bent gray head almost before he saw the room itself. It was indeed an office, but as Jim had suspected, a small section was curtained off with a cot and a laundry hamper, showing that—like every good leader—Kodos sometimes spent nights in his office. If Jim remembered correctly, Kodos was still waiting on the completion of his actual bedroom, furniture and decorations that were to arrive with the next supply shipment.

Jim cleared his throat, and Kodos looked up, his thin face wearing a pleasant, serious expression as his brown eyes darted between them.

“Yes? May I help you?”

Jim nodded, but he did not sit in the offered chair. The entire room had the look of pampered luxury about it, and although Jim knew captains were often accused of being greedy and power hungry, the entire set –up made him uncomfortable.

As if acting off unspoken signals, Spock did not sit either.

“Governor. We’re from the Department of Agriculture, and I’m afraid that you have an emergency on your hands.”

Kodos looked startled, and he tapped a stylus against his desk, his thin, bony hands no more substantial than that same instrument.

“An emergency? How so?”

He sounded mildly interested in response to Jim’s urgency, and Jim cursed him for his politician’s attitude.

“Your crops have contracted an exotic fungus. Before long it will wipe out nearly five-sixths of your food supply. If you want to save everyone, you have to contact the Federation immediately and have supplies rushed in.”

Now Kodos looked alarmed, and Jim felt a stirring of hope as he carefully removed a second data padd.

“That is indeed very serious. You do, of course, have proof?”

His stylus hovered over the screen, nearly touched it, and Jim shook his head.

Doubt bloomed across Kodos’ face, and Spock, seeing it, explained in his serious voice.

“We have encountered this fungus before, and we recognize the signs, Governor. You must contact the Federation. You are the only one with access to the long-range comm unit.”

 _And not for much longer_ , Jim silently added. He would have just pushed Kodos aside and made the call himself, but he knew that any attempt to do so would be met with guards, and he did not have the access code, had no way of discovering it, not in time.

“A distress call? With no basis?”

Kodos sounded not just doubtful but amused, and Jim knew, right then, that Kodos would not help them. He would not take the chance.

But still, Jim had to try.

“Governor, please. If you don’t act now, it will be too late.”

Kodos went back to his work, sliding the new padd back into his desk.

“If there is indeed an emergency as you claim, there will be plenty of time to contact emergency services before the situation would become critical.”

It was a dismissal as clear as day, and Jim panicked. He _panicked_.

“No, there won’t be! Your comm units won’t work for much longer.”

Kodos looked up at that, suspicion flickering across his face before it was masked.

“I’m…sorry?”

Jim’s voice was tired as he explained the unexplainable.

“An electrical storm is coming this way. It will devastate the power supplies in this colony, and help will be beyond your reach.” Kodos seemed to absorb that, and Jim tried, one last time.

“Please, there’s a ship less than a week away. Just call them.”

Kodos looked at them one last time, and then he folded his hands on the desk.

“I believe we are done here, Mr. King, Mr. Selek.” Jim wanted to protest, but an instant later, Kodos had tapped the intercom button on his desk. “Andrea, please escort them out.”

That same pretty woman came by to collect them, and as much as Jim wanted to scream, to rage, to make him listen, they left without a word.

********

The walk to Hoshi’s house was familiar to him, but it was not a comfort, and it was not long enough. He could not _think_ , not with his mind spinning in helpless circles with memories he had tried to repress for years, and not even the steady, well-known presence of Spock at his side could help.

Still, Spock tried.

“Captain, if we modify a short-range sensor and access the Governor’s power supply, we may be able to send out a short distress signal tomorrow morning.”

Jim sighed, and glanced at Spock for answers he knew neither of them had.

“Why not tonight?”

“If we wish to appear as what we seem, we cannot alarm our hosts. If we are detained, we will be unable to complete the modifications in time.”

It was sound and logical, but Jim felt a prickle at the skin of his back, an itch telling him that they were already _too late, too late, too late_.

“Okay, Spock. Okay.”

Although Jim was unable to dismiss the bad feeling, he forced a smile when they reached their destination, knowing that their hosts were cautious, and had no reason to trust them at all aside from a vague belief that no one would wish them ill.

Hoshi smiled at them, welcomed them, and gave them their room without hesitation; Jim noticed that she only gave them one, no doubt spurred by her belief that they were engaged in a clandestine love affair under the guise of their job. She had a good eyes for secrets, he admitted, but fortunately, she suspected the exactly wrong thing. Well, on Spock’s side at least.

Although they all ate dinner together, Jim could not shake the cloud over him, could not bring himself to laugh quite as much or smile at all of Takashi’s jokes over their eggplant and celery stew, and when evening fell and they all excused themselves for the long day tomorrow, Jim was just barely able to stop himself from telling the two of them to run for their lives.

But he was able to, because in the end, he and Spock had a plan.

“Captain?”

Jim realized he was staring into space only after Spock had spoken to him, touching his clothed shoulder. He didn’t shrug the touch off this time, choosing instead to release one heavy breath as he watched the night pass.

“Captain, we will be useless tomorrow if you do not rest.”

Jim sighed, and laid down on the bed, his body stiff where he brushed against Spock in the darkness.

“Logical as always, Mister Spock.”

The words were almost inaudible, and Spock did not respond although he must have heard them, simply lying still on his back on the quilted comforter beneath them. Jim felt annoyed, just barely, at the dismissal, but he didn’t let it get to him, knowing that his subconscious would forgive Spock anything.

It hadn’t started out like that, but Jim had always known that was how it would end, had known as soon as he saw Spock standing on that transporter padd, his arm outstretched.

Jim had never fallen in love with people that were good for him, not really. His destructive personality manifested itself that way, causing him to choose junkies and alcoholics over valedictorians even though could be on the level of either, and it hadn’t stopped when he’d entered Starfleet. If anything, it had only become more apparent, his tastes more reckless, and he’d had more than enough broken hearts and broken bones to show for it.

Spock was different. Jim knew he was good for him, knew that—despite everything—they belonged together, friends if nothing else. He knew it when he saw the naked fear in Spock’s eyes during the trial, knew it when he saw anger and longing on his face as his planet disappeared in the gaping maw of the black hole, and he knew it, time and again, when each month left them still standing together, still side-by-side.

Jim wasn’t sure when knowledge became love, when the sense of a kindred soul became longing for someone who couldn’t have been perfect but might have been perfect for _Jim_ , but he knew that it happened too quickly, and too late.

By the time Jim thought he might have found what he was always looking for, Spock had already had Uhura, and it was torture and stupidity to pretend otherwise.

All the same, Jim closed his eyes and tried to pretend, hoping that the dreams would at least keep the reality of Tarsus from his mind.

********

Jim wasn’t asleep when the door to his room burst open, but he might as well have been for all the good it did him. It was strange, but even staring into the darkness with nothing to distract him but the quiet sound of Spock’s even breathing, he hadn’t heard the creak of the vinyl floorboards or the protest of the brass knob as it turned. He hadn’t heard anything although there must have been noise, and he didn’t really understand what was happening even when there were four men in front of him, all of them wearing masks and carrying disruptors.

Spock understood. He went from asleep to awake in a second flat, and he fought like a Vulcan, all strength and logic, when they tried to drag them away. But what had Jim expected? They’d all but threatened the governor, they had definitely said that disaster was going to strike the colony, a disaster that would neatly coincide with their arrival; _of course_ they were being arrested, and of course Kodos had sent his best men. Jim and Spock were subdued in short order, although they were thankfully still conscious and dressed decently as they were hauled from the tiny room.

Rather than focus on his surroundings or the scared, startled expression on the faces of their hosts, Jim focused on the arrest itself. Perfect procedure, not a bump or bruise among them, and Jim wondered if events had already been set in motion, if these were Kodos’ followers, already saved from the slaughter. He couldn’t tell; the masks, so out of place when matched with a formal police uniform, made it difficult to say, and Jim wasn’t sure if he would have been able to identify them anyway. Hell, Jim had been thrown in jail so many times that policemen were all starting to look alike, regardless of their species, and as they were pushed and pulled to the ominous, darkened building across the civilian lands, he couldn’t help but think that all jails looked pretty much the same as well.

He and Spock were pushed into separate cells without preamble, although probably with more force than was necessary. Although Jim doubted it was for their benefit, the guards left immediately afterwards, closing the door with a soft slap as its hinges protested, and leaving them in the dark.

Jim turned to Spock, aware of him moving in the next cell, and the barest sliver of yellow moonlight confirmed it when it lit upon his thin hands around the bars of his door. The way they flexed made it clear that Spock was testing the stability of his cell, and the fact that the bars didn’t budge made it just as clear that the construction was sound.

“So, Spock, did you sleep well?”

Jim was bitterly amused about the entire situation, but he recognized the question as the mocking query it was. He knew he had been twitching with repressed anger when Spock had gone to sleep, and he knew that only part of it had been because Kodos had refused to believe them, had refused to even acknowledge their words. The other part was because Spock had been able to sleep at a time like this, with a massacre looming over their heads, and Jim couldn’t.

“Well?”

Spock didn’t answer, because at that moment, the bulky form of one of their abductors entered. When he removed the mask—an environmental protection mask, Jim saw—his face was grim under his sandy hair, and he stared at Jim like he wanted very much to give him a swift kick.

“We’ve been attempting to contact the Department of Agriculture, but we can’t reach them. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, son?”

Jim gritted his teeth. Of course they would think to check up on their identities in light of the situation, and the electrical storm—that damned storm—would prevent it.

“An electrical storm has been interfering with communications all day. Check your instruments; you’ll see what I mean.”

The guard relaxed, but only marginally.

“We’ve already checked. The storm won’t clear for weeks, which means you’re stuck here until we know what to do with you.”

Jim scoffed, the sound harsh.

“Oh yeah? What are you holding us for?”

The guard looked at him like he was being deliberately obtuse.

“Terrorism.”

Jim goggled at him.

“ _What_?”

“Our plants are dying. All of them. You two are the only ones with the knowledge necessary to do something like that, and the Governor said you came into his office, spouting threats.”

Jim smacked the bars in front of him in anger, in panic, in a million other things that no one else could understand.

“W-we tried to warn you! The planet we came from had a similar problem, and it spread to their neighboring planets through trade! Dammit, _we were trying to help you_!”

The guard looked sad, suddenly, and Jim wondered if he already knew what the outcome of the exotic fungus would be.

“Maybe, son, maybe. But it’s too late now. You’re staying here until we can get in contact with your department.”

Jim pushed away from the door of his cell, disgusted and scared, so very scared.

“Fine. Do what you like.”

The guard left without another word, and Jim sat down on the stone bench hanging along one side, his weight jerking the chains, and he saw Spock move out of the corner of his eyes.

“I did not sleep well, Jim.”

The words were soft, and Jim laughed, the sound high and nervous as he glanced at his surroundings.

“Yeah. Me neither.”

********

Jim would have said that the following week was torture, except he’d actually _been_ tortured once, and so he decided it was simply boring and highly stressful, more so the latter. The storm did not pass, as Jim had known it wouldn’t, and in the silent hours of the daylight, Jim stared out his window, watching as the streets emptied more and more each day. Lives were gradually coming to a halt as the fungus spread, rapidly destroying their food supplies, and as the days passed, Jim felt the weight of so many lives on his shoulders. At night Jim didn’t sleep much, but that was as much due to his own subtle plots as tension. Plots that had formed when, during his very first day in this cell, he had realized that one bar in his window was loose, and another was only a few good twists away from being the same.

At night Jim twisted those bars until his hands were raw, and Spock—obviously aware of his plans—watched for any signs of the guards who came only once a day to bring them their food portions. They didn’t talk, not really, but they communicated as well as they always had, focusing on what was important rather than what Jim wanted to say. What he’d almost _done_.

But their food portions were getting smaller, and Jim’s sense of time told him that there was only a day, two max, before they lost any chance to be of use to the colony, before the massacre was in full-force. Jim wasn’t sure how they measured up in this situation—funny, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he and Spock might be part of Kodos’ “less essential” half—but his question was answered on their eighth day of being inexplicably imprisoned.

Kodos came to the jail with sorrow in his brown eyes and circles the color of bruised peaches under them, and Jim knew. He _knew_.

“I am sorry I did not listen to you, my friends.”

Except that wasn’t what Jim was expecting. A speech about the more being greater than the one, that is what he had expected. But the sad eyes of a man who looked much older than his fifty years, his thick robes hanging heavy on a body that had obviously lost weight, stirred an unexpected jolt of sympathy in Jim’s heart. Kodos didn’t look like a monster, and he repressed the thought viciously.

Kodos might not look like a monster, but he _was_. Or would be soon.

“If you had listened, this could have been prevented,” Spock murmured, his throat dry from lack of water. He had explained to Jim, days ago, that Vulcans did not require water to survive, that they used it only to keep the throat lubricated.

He had of course given everything _nonessential_ to his captain.

Kodos looked at him, obviously taking in Spock’s dry skin, and wordlessly handed him a glass of water. Spock accepted it but did not drink it until Jim nodded at him, and Kodos watched the exchange before speaking quietly.

“I do not believe so. Over the past few days, it has become readily apparent that this fungus has been present for some months, dormant. We blamed you initially—can you blame us?—but even if we had accepted your advice, the situation would be the same.”

Kodos looked down at his hands, and Jim saw they were raw, scraped, the result of scavenging the desert for food, of attempting to dig up the diseased plants and get to the roots of those that were still safe. Jim did not remember much about Kodos except the figure he had been, but he remembered that—at least initially—the governor of Tarsus IV had worked along everyone else, trying to prolong starvation. It hadn’t worked, in the end, but as Kodos looked up now, Jim wondered if maybe he had never wanted it to work. If he was power hungry.

“Our food supplies are low. They will not be enough to feed eight thousand men, women, and children until our next supply.”

Jim saw no choice but to plead with him, and he slipped his arms through the bars, holding them up in entreaty.

“Don’t do anything drastic. You don’t have to; the storm will clear up in a few days, and you can call for more supplies.”

Kodos shook his head, denying even the possibility of another option, and Jim felt tears prick his eyes. _You fool. You great fool!_

Kodos didn’t look mad, but he looked earnest, hopeful even though he was about to do this terrible thing.

“But how long until they arrive? Should I choose slow starvation for all, horrors for the children, misery and agony for those who are too old to live on half-rations? A quarter?”

“It’ll only take a few days. A week. You have to believe me. Just wait a day. _A day_!”

Kodos hesitated for the barest moment; Jim saw it and felt hope. But then Kodos turned away from them both, from the accusing gazes of people who knew that he’d had another choice, if only he had listened.

He denied even that.

“There’s no time. There never was.” Kodos looked at them again, but the expression was unyielding. Cold. “I’m sorry, Mr. King. But being a leader is difficult, and that includes…difficult choices. Do not fear for your safety; neither of you will not be harmed.”

He turned on his heel before he left, and Jim barely heard the answer to his unasked question as panic surged through him. He banged the heel of his wrist against the door to his cell, the clang moving through his body, mocking him with the small pain.

“Kodos. Kodos!”

Jim pushed himself away and flung himself at the window in the answering silence, twisting furiously at the iron under his hands until a small trickle of dust trailed from the cement. Still, he pulled, and when the bar resisted, he moaned in anguish, placing one foot as leverage against the ash gray wall. He pushed.

When the bar came loose, Jim stumbled, holding it in his hand even as he fell. He barely even noticed as he tossed it aside, surging up to attack the second.

“Captain. Jim!”

Jim looked at Spock, saw the sorrow there, and he turned back to his work.

“Jim, it’s too late.”

“It’s _never_ too late,” Jim whispered furiously, and he jerked himself from side to side. The mortar under the bar crumbled, but still it would not give. It _had_ to give.

With one last heave, it did, and Jim threw it furiously, examining the gap that remained. He heard the bar hit the door of his cell, knew the guards must have heard it, but he didn’t care, and he pushed himself up, dust making the window sill slippery.

It was a difficult fit, a tight squeeze, but Jim managed. His shoulder hurt once he had shimmied through, but as he hit the ground again—dirt instead of concrete this time—he barely noticed it.

He looked at Spock for only an instant, Spock, who thought it was over, who was still in his cell.

“I’ll be back,” Jim blurted out, and then he took off running, wishing his feet could fly.

********

Jim went to Hoshi. He didn’t know what else to do, but he knew that Kodos had arranged the colonists into two groups in his mind, the essential and the needless, and age had been a determining factor. He remembered her from his youth, remembered her smiling old face, and he wanted, if nothing else, to save _her_ from her fate.

But when she saw him, standing outside her door and covered in gray dust, she looked at him with an expression he had never wanted: fear.

“Mr. King. I’m sorry, but Governor Kodos has called us all to the town hall—” She was pulling on her thin red gloves, the gloves her corpse had worn, and the sight of them made the rational part of Jim’s brain, the part with the plan, disappear completely.

“He’s going to kill you. You and your husband and almost four thousand other people, to save the rest,” Jim gasped out, lungs burning from the run, and Hoshi looked alarmed, but not for the reasons he wanted.

Takashi stepped in front of her, protecting her, blocking her from _him_.

“You’re insane. Governor Kodos would never—”

Jim grabbed his arms, and Taskashi shook his grip off, looking, if anything, just as scared and suspicious as his wife.

“He _will_ , don’t you understand!? It’s just math to him, just numbers and genetics, and _dammit_ , if you don’t hide _right now_ —”

Takashi pushed him aside, and the force was surprising, coming from such an old man. One hundred and twenty three years this month, if Jim remembered correctly, and the thought made his vision blur. Takashi was a carpenter, a farmer, and he should have had _at least_ _fifty_ _more_. They both should have.

“We’ve heard enough. We let you into our home, and you repay us by poisoning our crops, and now accusing the Governor of-of _murder_? Believe it or not, Governor Kodos has gotten us through famines before. He will do right for us.”

The faith they had in their leader was absurd, but even in his panic, Jim couldn’t blame them. How often had his crew felt the same for him?

“No, _listen_ —”

Takashi ignored him, putting on his hat as he hustled his wife along the street.

“Come on, Hoshi.”

The last thing he saw of them was the sadness in Hoshi’s face, and the words she didn’t say. _We trusted you. You’re crazy. It will all be all right._

The platitudes did no more good for him than they would do for her, and Jim closed his eyes, stumbling once before he took off running a second time, dipping through the alleys and side streets until he reached the town hall, and then he attempt to barricade the door with his body.

People—people he remembered, people who were still broken on the floor in his nightmares—pushed past him. Jim babbled, he knew he was babbling, but no one listened, no one at all, and they filed one after one into the last room they would ever enter. Not everyone; they had already been separated.

When the guards dragged him away, he was screaming, and the first lines of Kodos’ speech echoed down the streets just before the doors closed.

“The revolution is successful. But survival depends on drastic measures…”

********

They put him in Spock’s cell; obviously they had noticed his escape and understood the reasons behind it, but Jim thought they looked too grim and pale to have really understood until that moment. The one of his right was shaking, and Jim thought he could have escaped again if only he’d struggled enough, but he didn’t have the energy, or the motive. Where would he have gone? The massacre had taken only minutes, less than half an hour, in his memories, as disruptors went off and gas grenades poisoned those that the beams missed. Jim had watched from behind the safety of his own mask, at Kodos’ side, and he’d wondered—then—what he could have done to stop it.

Nothing, was the answer. Absolutely nothing.

Jim didn’t say anything to Spock, didn’t even look at him, and when Kodos’ second—his name wasn’t important; he would die in the fire in Kodos’ mansion in a few hours—came to let them out that evening, Jim bolted without a backwards glance, without so much as a nod at his first officer or the pale guard who Jim knew had been vomiting only minutes before. Even such small interactions seemed pointless, and although he knew it was cruel to abandon Spock like this, he did it anyway.

It was less than an hour before a thin form crouched in front of the shelf Jim was hiding behind, silent but obviously present. Spock had found him, of course. It wasn’t like Jim could disappear into the thinned crowd, and with electricity and heating on the fritz, there weren’t many places he could hide; not when he was younger, and not now. As if he’d needed another reminder of the things that couldn’t be changed.

“Captain?”

Jim swallowed, and if asked, he would deny the tears he felt clogging his throat.

“Go away, Spock.”

Spock was silent for a moment longer, and then he did just the opposite. When it became apparent that Jim wouldn’t be coming out, he did what must have been the only _logical_ thing, rising and pulling the metal shelf away from the wall a few more inches to accommodate the presence of his slightly taller form. As he slithered past the frame, the energy-saving bulbs outlined him in dull blue light, making him look like an angel, or a mirage.

“Captain?”

Jim wanted to hit him, or hold him. Neither was a good idea.

“I couldn’t save them. I knew exactly what was going to happen, and I still _couldn’t save them_.”

Spock didn’t comment immediately on either his guilt or his apparent instability. Jim wondered if Spock cared so little for him that he would include this in his report when— _if—_ they returned to their own time. He wondered if Spock would simply leave him to his misery, concern himself with other, more _logical_ things, and Jim almost wished he would.

He didn’t.

“Captain, there was nothing you could have done.”

Jim laughed, the sound short and dry as the still desert outside the colony’s walls.

“Couldn’t I? I warned all the colonists, I proposed other possibilities, and when that didn’t work, I escaped from prison, and tried to hide those who I knew were going to be victims. But nobody would—” Jim cut himself off with a choke, and he knew Spock didn’t need to hear the rest. Nobody would listen. They trusted their government to save them over just some stranger, and in the end, that belief had doomed them as much as any weapon. Why should they have listened to a man who admitted he was only concerned with their agriculture? He could have said he was an experienced traveler. A humanitarian. An expert in emergency situations. Anything, but in the end, he doubted it would have mattered; history played out as it had before without fail, as Spock had warned him it would. They had been too late, months too late, maybe.

He glared at Spock in the darkness, but he suspected the effort went unnoticed. He didn’t mean it anyway.

“Just…go away, Spock. The relief ships will be here in only a few hours; I’ll live until then.”

The words weren’t truthful, not entirely, and Spock actually flinched in the darkness at his bleak tone. It was surprising, considering the _logic_ of the situation.

“Jim…”

Even the use of his name didn’t detour him, and his words came out harsh and piercing, bitter, unforgiving and unfair.

“I suppose you consider it a fair trade. Four thousand lives for the other four thousand, and with us in the _lucky_ half…well, who cares about those others? A _logical_ sacrifice, just a tiny pinprick in the greater population of the universe…” Jim trailed off, unable to continue. He couldn’t see Spock’s face, but he could imagine it; hard dark eyes, pale face, thin mouth, all attempting to hide how the words must have cut into him. Spock wasn’t heartless; the deaths of so many must have affected him and Jim knew it, and the pain he tried to hide was obvious in his whispered words.

“If that is what you believe.”

Jim sighed, and hid his stinging eyes against his sleeve.

“I don’t. Of course I don’t.” Hadn’t Jim seen the heartbreak in his eyes time and again? Spock was simply a logical being, and he did what he must; there was nothing better or worse about his methods of life than Jim’s, and when they were on _Enterprise_ , he loved him for his differences, not despite them.

But they weren’t on _Enterprise_. They were on Tarsus IV, and in the end, Spock had been right about trying to change history, and about there not being enough time. He had been _right_ , but God, _it hurt._

 “I’m sorry.” Was it enough? Probably not.

“You are not required to apologize.”

“I know.” There had been a time in the first months of their mission where Jim had researched Vulcans beyond what could be explained by a casual interest. “But…even though it hurts, Spock, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“Your mind is troubled.”

Jim felt his lips twitch weakly, and he wondered why Spock sounded so hesitant to state the obvious.

“It is.”

Spock looked away, and the soft light enhanced the lines of his strong neck. When he turned back, still silent, he leaned forward, pressing a hand to Jim’s cheek as the other hovered suggestively near his temple, the pose familiar.

Jim wouldn’t have been more shocked if Spock had decided to dance naked in the moonlight.

“I can…I can ease your sorrows. Your guilt. Your pain.”

“Can you.” It wasn’t a question. Jim had never told anyone, but he remembered well the way Spock had touched the face of that fallen Romulan, how he had then known instantly everything they needed to know, and how the older Spock had done the same.

Spock explained anyway, softly.

“There is an ancient Vulcan practice, one employed very rarely. It causes a momentary merging of the minds, and transference of thoughts. It would allow you emotional distance for a time.”

Jim snorted, because he wasn’t _stupid_.

“And what else would it allow me, huh? I hate these memories, Spock, this world, this reality, but they’re still _mine_.”

Spock looked away, dropping his hands silently, and Jim knew he had hit the nail on the head.

“I am sorry.” The statement was as desolate as Jim felt, and he found himself reaching, reaching, even before he knew what he was doing.

His hands closed firmly around Spock’s wrists, possibly too firmly, but Spock didn’t flinch, didn’t even look surprised.

“If you want to help me, then distract me.”

Spock looked at him uncertainly, and Jim tugged the unresponsive hands in his to his chest, until he had palms pressed against him, too intimately for a Vulcan. There must have been no doubt about what he wanted, and Spock hesitated; Jim hated him for it.

“ _Distract me_ , Spock.” It was a plea, and Spock leaned forward. His eyes were as sad as Jim had ever seen, and when Spock touched their lips together, Jim hated himself. Spock’s lips were chapped from the dry heat of their cell, as Jim’s were, but they were still warm, and a relief from the cold that seemed to permeate the air, engulfing him. Under other circumstances, it would have been sweet, but even though Jim had all but dragged them together, it was unwelcome.

There was a part of him that thought of Uhura, then, even though he hadn’t given her a second thought when he’d _fallen in love_ with Spock, and combined with the events of the day and the chill of the night, he felt sick.

 _Not for you, Jimmy._ Even if he had been a girl, even if he hadn’t been broken, even if they hadn’t been on Tarsus, Jim knew this would always be true. Spock wasn’t for him. Would never be.

Jim pushed him away, hard.

“ _No_.” And then he was dry heaving, shaking, almost crying in great gasping sobs, and he felt Spock’s hands on him again, this time in friendship and comfort, nothing logical about either.

Jim clung to him until exhaustion pulled him into sleep, and in his mind, he saw shattered faces and pools of blood reflecting a madman’s grim smile.

********

Jim woke with his arms still wrapped around Spock and the world still dark, and he knew that it was the early morning by the fresh, wet taste of the air. It had rained— _It always rains before the fire_ , Hoshi had once said, and Jim hadn’t understood her then—but when he looked out the bare gaps in the walls near him, he remembered.

Today was the day. A lightening storm would strike Kodos’ house, catch them all off guard, and he and several of his men would die, just before the the relief task force from the Federation arrived. The idea, despite the familiarity, jolted him, and the idea— _justice_ —struck him hard.

“Spock. Wake up, Spock.”

Spock was lying across him, keeping him warm, and he looked as exhausted as Jim felt. Jim realized, then, that Spock hadn’t been sleeping either, not as much as he pretended, and realization became certainty when Spock blinked eerily green— _bloodshot_ —eyes at him.

“Captain?”

Jim had lost something, and it drifted farther away as Spock straightened, tugging his well-wrinkled clothes into some semblance of order. Jim patted him on the stomach just before he could move completely away, and he felt the slight dip of hunger that shouldn’t have been there, wouldn’t have been there if Spock hadn’t given him his rations for the past week.

 _Another time_ , Jim’s mind whispered, and he acknowledged it. He had more to thank Spock for than he could ever remember, but now, with exhaustion still lingering on the horizon and memories of everything he hadn’t done haunting him, he had other things to worry about.

“Spock. We have to catch Kodos.”

Spock frowned minutely, the expression appearing slightly less dignified because of the crease of Jim’s clothes that remained on his cheek.

“I do not understand.”

Jim shook his head, and he was tired, so tired. But he hadn’t saved anyone in the end; the least he owed them, owed them _all_ , was this. And by God, he would stay to bury the bodies, too, if he could—he owed them that as well.

“Originally, he died in a fire before the Federation could arrive. But, Spock, he _needs_ to face justice for what he’s done, and we can catch him, hold him until the authorities of this time arrive.”

Spock stood, pulling Jim to his unsteady feet before he had finished. It took him a moment to realize where he was, and then he recognized the building as being the general supply shop—his second home when he was on Tarsus, he could have sworn—and he wondered what else hadn’t changed.

“Yes, Captain.”

Well, at least something had changed; Spock didn’t try to argue. And the other thing that had changed was the fact that Spock didn’t immediately release his hand, and Jim wondered if there was some significance to that, wondered as they all but fled the building.

If he had asked the question, Spock wouldn’t have answered him, and so Jim stayed silent as they ran across the empty streets, too aware of their time limit. Minutes—only minutes.

They reached Kodos’ mansion a few moments later; there were no guards, which was surprising, but as they darted past the iron-wrought gate, Jim saw why.

The bodies of several guards littered the ground, and Jim had the briefest thought— _not Kodos_ —before they burst into the building. But if Kodos hadn’t killed them, who had? Who else was here that could have done so, would have had the motive? Who was on this planet that wasn’t shaking in their beds, having realized what had happened to their friends, their family?

Jim never got his answer. As they turned the corner to the main sitting room, intent on reaching Kodos’ office, a familiar golden light loomed in front of them, and Jim only had the briefest second to grab Spock’s arm before the glow swallowed them whole.

The last thing Jim heard was the sound of lightening striking the roof above them, and the flames igniting.

********

Once Jim realized what the light had been, he expected the impact. He wasn’t sure how long he had been between places—trapped in time—but when he landed this time, he knew exactly where he was and why, and the ground only caused him to grunt as the breath was knocked out of him. The dirt under his face this time was familiar as well, but for different reasons, and he would have cursed at the poor timing of it all if he hadn’t been so absurdly relieved to be off that cursed planet.

They were back on T’Sher, and—Jim was guessing—back in their own time. He said ‘they’ because Spock was beside him this time, and as they looked at each other, he knew Spock was thinking the same thing. Missed opportunities to change the worst parts of their past…but they were home, where they belonged, and even though there wasn’t a soul in sight, Jim felt the press of those who knew him, wanted him, and followed him without question. They were on the _Enterprise_ right now and Jim—still blinking sand out of his eyes—stumbled to his feet and marched away from the volcano behind them.

It was broad daylight, but no bombs were flying. Someone had won in the time since their disappearance, obviously, or the field of battle had moved, and Jim found himself curiously not caring _what_ had happened. Thanks to this damn species and their stupid manhood test or whatever, he had relieved his worst childhood memory, and he knew he would never forgive them.

But he might start to, just a little bit, if they had left the damn shuttle where it was.

They walked. It seemed like every time the damn volcano spit them out they did nothing but walk, and Jim felt the strain of it all harder this time. He felt useless, heartsick, and just plain sick, and if he had needed any proof that he hadn’t dreamed it all, that he wasn’t crazy, the affirming looks Spock shot him and the still apparent physical evidence was more than enough.

By the time they reached the shuttle, Jim was ready to collapse, and Spock wrapped an arm around his waist to support him. Jim must have looked worse than he thought, and it was with a sigh that he settled in the back of the newly-stripped shuttle. The medical equipment was gone—he had almost forgotten about it—but so was much of the equipment near the pilot seats, the environmental controls, the spare oxygen tanks, the basic first-aid kit that all shuttles had. It made Jim amused, in an unhappy way.

They had left the shuttle, sure, but only after they’d robbed them blind and dumped them into a volcano. It was just his luck, but thankfully, the Saradori had not found any use for the comm system, and it more or less remained.

Spock tinkered with it silently, and Jim watched him just as quietly. It seemed impossible that they could be here again, that everything could be back to the way it was, and Jim saw new tension in the lines of Spock’s back. He wasn’t sure if the cause was Tarsus or him, but if he had to guess, he suspected it was a combination of both.

 _Well_ , _what did you expect_? Jim thought tiredly. _A friendship made stronger through trauma? Love? Lust? Vulcans don’t work like that._

And he knew they didn’t. Jim was probably lucky Spock was still talking to him, except—oh yeah—Spock hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived back.

“Spock?”

Spock didn’t turn.

“Yes, Captain?”

Jim swallowed. Professional. Neutral. Nothing was different, not for either of them.

“Nothing, Spock.”

There was the sound of static, and Spock adjusted something quickly. Jim watched his movements, no longer fluid, and he made a note to give Spock time off whether he wanted it or not—time to deal with his own nightmares.

“We will be able to contact Enterprise shortly, Captain, if they are still within range,” Spock explained shortly, and Jim started, mind forced back to the present.

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

“According the chronometer, we have been missing for nine days.”

Jim supposed that made sense. He had heard theories about different forms of time travel, all drowned in physics, and it was almost impossible to get back to the time you left, even in theory. He hoped Uhura wasn’t too worried about Spock, and for his part…he hoped Bones had enough alcohol to make this new batch of memories and misery disappear for a while.

He supposed he could look forward to nightmares and crying for the first time in over ten years.

“Captain?”

The voice wasn’t Spock’s, and Jim glanced at the comm unit, blinking with new life, before scooting forward.

“Scotty?”

The engineer’s voice was, by all accounts, overjoyed.

“Oh, thank God! Captain, what’s happened? The general’s forces invaded the rebel base and found the shuttle, but all they got out of them was that—that you and Commander Spock had fallen into a volcano.”

Jim felt his lips twist, and he wondered how many secrets he would be keeping before the end of the day.

“A common mistake, Scotty.” There was a short laugh, and the distraction worked, just like Jim had wanted it to. “Can you beam us up? The general seems to have gutted our shuttle.”

“That _bas_ —”

“Scotty! Not now, please.”

Scotty seemed to understand, perhaps better than he knew.

“Of course, sir. Is Commander Spock with you?”

Jim felt his lips twitch. He had almost forgotten that scanners didn’t work very well with the magnetic field of the planet, transporters either. _Oh well; we have to risk it._

“Well, he _did_ fix the comm unit.”

“I see.” There was a moment of silence where Scotty must have relayed this to the transporter room, and then he came back on, sounding reluctant. “Doctor McCoy wants you to report to sickbay as soon as you’re aboard.”

“Fine.” If Scotty wondered why Jim didn’t protest he didn’t say, and Jim was glad. The truth was that he didn’t think he could face anyone else besides Bones, and Bones would be sure to know that.

Jim barely felt the transporter.

********

Sickbay was the same as it always was, with one exception; Bones took one look at Jim’s face and promptly dismissed every member of his staff for, as he put it, an “extended coffee break,” leaving only he, Jim, and Spock standing among the soft white surroundings.

Bones rounded on him, his expression severe.

“Alright, Jim. What happened?”

Jim sighed, and when his friend attempted to scan him with the nearest tricorder, he stopped him by leaning his head on his shoulder. Bones patted his back, the motion friendly, gentle, and blessedly familiar and safe.

“Nothing, Bones,” Jim lied easily, and then he finished, his voice sounding sheepish. “A jail cell. Not enough food.”

He almost felt the scowl form on McCoy’s face.

“And?”

Jim sighed again.

“People died, Bones.”

McCoy was silent for a moment, and then his arm tightened around Jim’s shoulder.

“Spock?”

Jim twisted, and he saw Spock staring neutrally—but intently—at them both.

“It is as the Captain said.”

 _Thank you_. Just one more thing he owed Spock for, it seemed. He wondered if he would ever not need Spock there, but it didn’t seem to matter. Almost as soon as he said it, Spock stood, murmured a quick “excuse me, Doctor, Captain” and left.

Bones huffed into his hair.

“Damn hobgoblin. What’s wrong with him?”

Jim didn’t try to explain, because he doubted “he lied for me” was all it was, and it would defeat the point of the lie anyway.

“He’s tired, and he had less food than I did. You know how he gets when he’s tired.”

McCoy made an amused noise, and Jim barely felt a needle slide under his skin, pumping his body full of the necessary nutrients he hadn’t seen for almost nine days.

“Yeah, I know. He also seemed pissed off about something, though.”

Jim smiled, just barely.

“Bones, you know Vulcans don’t get angry.”

“Bullshit,” McCoy responded absently, the whirring of his instruments almost blocking out the curse as Jim’s IV continued to drip. Jim watched the blue liquid absently, hoping that was the end of it. Hoping that Bones would let his secrets rest.

For once in the years of their friendship, Bones didn’t pry, just grabbing his hand and squeezing as the scans continued.

********

Jim cited “trauma leave” as the reason he went to his quarters immediately after his examination, and he knew that—even with his somewhat edited story—Starfleet would allow it. The idea of skipping out on work to lie around his quarters didn’t appeal to him, strangely, but he knew he wasn’t one hundred percent, that he wasn’t completely aware of this world, that the memories were still too fresh. It was agony, being here, knowing he had failed. That he always failed.

He took off his travel clothes and ejected them into space without a thought, wishing that he could rid himself of his guilt and pain just as easily.

“Captain?”

It was his comm unit, and Jim looked at it dispassionately, hearing the electronic buzz lacing through Spock’s voice. _They really have to fix that_ , he thought absently as he laid back, ignoring the question.

He wasn’t surprised to hear his door swish open; he’d forgotten to lock it.

“Captain?”

Jim didn’t so much as look at him.

“Hey, Spock,” he responded, voice flat. Spock came to stand in front of him, looking professional and cool in his science blues, but unable to hide the slight bag of the fabric around his waist and hips. “Back to work already?”

Spock shook his head slightly, and for the first time in Jim’s memory, he sat down without being asked, perching on the chair beside Jim’s bed like a familiar car ready to fly over a cliff.

“No. I have been…unable to concentrate.”

For Spock, that was a hell of an admission, but Jim just snorted.

“Tell me about it.”

Spock glanced at him, then away and back again.

“Captain. I hope you have someone to help you with this…ordeal.”

Jim wasn’t sure what he meant, or what was going on in that beautiful Vulcan brain of his.

“I’m sorry?”

Spock answered him quietly.

“You did not confide in the doctor. I was under the impression that you were close friends, or lovers.”

Jim shrugged, and he wondered if Spock thought so little of him, that he would cheat on someone just for a _distraction_. He would have been amused, in fact, except he knew he had never given him a reason to think otherwise.

“I would never burden Bones with that.” And it was the truth. McCoy had enough problems, his own demons. He had never known about Jim, and Tarsus.

Spock looked both disapproving and relieved at the answer, if that was possible.

“I see. But you must have someone to talk to.”

The way Spock kept insisting on it surprised Jim, just a little, and he wondered if Spock had read a manual on grieving or something, to think that spilling his secrets to someone who would think less of him would somehow make it _better_.

“What do you want to know, Spock?”

Spock’s question seemed like a complete non sequitur.

“Why are you in your underclothes?”

Jim realized then that he was wearing only a fresh pair of white briefs. He would have been embarrassed, except…no, scratch that, he _should_ have been embarrassed.

But he was just so cold, and tired, and his body felt heavy.

“I couldn’t stand to wear those clothes any longer. I put them in with the trash.”

Spock was quiet for a moment, and then he murmured:

“I did so as well.”

Jim flicked his gaze from the ceiling to his first officer.

“Do you have someone to talk to, Spock?”

Spock shook his head minutely, and Jim realized that his hair had grown. He had been focusing so much on Tarsus, on survival, that he hadn’t noticed the small change, either in Spock or—he realized—himself.

“I do not require it.”

 “You shouldn’t tell tales, Spock.” Jim’s voice was so gentle it surprised him. “It broke your heart to know those people were going to die, even if logic said it had to happen.”

Spock didn’t deny it, and Jim closed his eyes with a sigh. _Beautiful Spock._ He still believed that there was no one he’d rather see him at his worst.

“I am only here to assist you, Captain.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, because it seemed fitting. The familiar banter, the same argument, wrapped around him snuggly, comforting him even more than _Enterprise_ herself.

“ _Captain_?”

Spock capitulated easily.

“Jim. As your friend, I wish to aid you.”

Jim snorted again, and scratched his stomach almost absently. His skin was chapped and dry from wearing the same clothes for the better part of his _disappearance_ , and not even the soft thrum of the sonics had helped.

“How?”

Spock, if it was possible, perched even more carefully on the edge of the thin seat cushion.

“The events that we experienced were indeed a result of Mount D’Atori. I contacted the general to ask about the terrain, and he informed me that the Saradori have been fighting over that location for at least two centuries. It is a holy location, as I understand.”

Jim felt a stirring of curiosity despite himself, despite everything, and he sat up reflexively to study his first officer’s face.

“Why?”

Spock looked at him, and he spoke very slowly, very clearly.

“Because Mount D’Atori is supposedly a judge of character. It forces you to relive your worst experiences, the things you most regret, and only those who have proven themselves to be worthy are ever seen again.” He paused to let the words sink in, and Jim waited.

“Jim, you are the only one who has ever returned.”

To Jim it sounded like Spock was almost in _awe_ , and he couldn’t believe it. Any of it.

“I can’t be the _only_ one. I let them down, Spock. They died because I wasn’t—” _Enough. Quick enough, smart enough, brave enough_ —

Spock touched his face, and Jim wondered when he had stood. Wondered if, in fact, Jim had been babbling out loud as well as in his thoughts.

“No, Jim. They died because you were forced to relive a memory. Nothing more.”

Jim’s lips twisted in a weak smile.

“You seem so certain of that.”

Spock continued to touch his face almost reverently, and Jim thought maybe he was dreaming. Hallucinating. In heaven.

“I am. Jim, no one could have done more.” His words were so soft, his touch gentle, but the conviction in them meant more than both. It actually helped, somewhat. Not enough, but somewhat.

“Huh.”

Spock’s fingers slipped away, and Jim came to himself enough to miss them, and enough to be confused. That wasn’t a friendly touch, not for Vulcans, and he couldn’t help but think: _What about Uhura_?

“The Saradori rebel forces wish to speak with you. To negotiate.”

The abrupt shift from longed-for touches to an extremely unwanted subject made Jim’s body tense, and he almost snarled.

“Well, screw that!”

Spock only blinked at the outburst.

“I will inform them that you are unavailable.”

Jim nodded, and he laid back down, the cool bedspread suddenly appreciated when it touched his heated skin. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly with the palm of his hand.

“Why can’t they speak to you?”

“I am also unavailable.” Jim peered at him from between his fingers, and Spock, sensing it, inclined his head. “And it was not my memory, Jim.”

Jim nodded slowly, and he looked at Spock. Really looked at him.

“You wish it was. You wish that it had been you instead.”

Spock didn’t try to deny it.

“Yes. I would not have wished this pain on you.”

Jim wondered what his memory was, and then he cursed himself for wondering. A massacre that he blamed himself for? It could only be the destruction of Vulcan. The loss of his mother.

Jim was suddenly absurdly glad that it had been his memory after all, and Spock saw it in his face. Jim knew he did.

“Jim…”

Jim knew this conversation. He’d been dreading it for months, but it was only recently—thanks to Spock’s touch telepathy—that he had started to expect it. He didn’t want to discuss it. Not now.

“Let it rest, Spock.”

Spock stood again, and although Jim had all but dismissed him, he didn’t want him to leave. Thankfully Spock didn’t, simply moving to stand over him, to look him in the eyes with a gaze that was neither condemning nor friendly.

“You lust after me, Jim.” The statement was direct, and Jim didn’t doubt for a moment that Spock would see through his denials. Still, he tried, hoping he could pass it off—pass everything off—as stress.

“I ‘lust after’ a lot of people, Spock.” His voice even sounded faintly amused—an impressive feat in light of the fact that his heart was pounding erratically in his chest.

“I suppose this is true.” Spock didn’t seem particularly bothered by the fact, and Jim wondered if he was so easy to read.

“However, you also have great affection for me that I find impossible to explain in any way except one.”

 _Apparently I am that easy to read._ Jim forced himself to snort.

“Are you saying I’m in love with you?”

Spock looked at him, his face serious.

“Are you?”

Jim grinned, the expression empty, and he shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess. Is this where you offer a pity fuck?”

Spock sat on the edge of the bed, closer, but Jim still had to lean forward to hear his voice.

“No. A distraction.”

Jim wanted it, oh, how he wanted it. Any excuse, any touch, any reason to hold Spock to him. But he had learned his lesson about going after people who were taken, and he had learned it hard, through brawls and through heartbreak.

“What about Uhura?”

Spock actually looked surprised.

“Nyota is not a concern. To my knowledge, she has no romantic attachment to either of us.”

Jim wanted to ask when that had happened, and why. He wanted to, but he wanted to believe Spock more; he had the strangest feeling that it would be better for everyone if he didn’t ask, and Spock seemed to agree, volunteering nothing.

 _This won’t work_ , a voice warned, but Jim ignored it. He just wanted to touch Spock, just once. _Once_ , he promised himself, _to last the rest of my life_.

Spock took his silence as tacit agreement, and he extended both hands, brushing his fingers smoothly across the tight skin over Jim’s ribs. Jim sucked in his breath at the tickling touch, and his body surged unintentionally forward.

“Is this how you would like me to begin, Jim?” The touches trailed to the arch of his hip bone and then up again, brushing over pink nipples on their path to the dip of his throat, lingering over the protrusion of his collarbones.

“Clavicles, Jim,” Spock murmured, and he leaned forward, brushing his thin lips over the bone in question, looking like he wanted to be there, wanted to be touching Jim.

Jim couldn’t stand it.

“Spock, I—”

Spock touched his lips with a thin fingertip.

“I only wish to comfort you, Jim.”

Jim didn’t think he could ever turn that sort of offer away, and he closed his eyes.

“Distract me, Spock.”

Spock obliged beyond Jim’s closed eyes, warm lips brushing against his own with what Jim pretended was reverence, opening over his own with what he wanted to be affection.

“Don’t think, Jim.” The kiss became soft, and then a series of light presses between them. Jim returned them gently because it was _Spock_ kissing _him_ , and whatever else was between them, he wanted that. Whatever else the future held, whatever else his past made him—

“Don’t think, Jim.”

Jim opened his eyes, and all he saw was Spock looking at him, Spock holding his weight above him, Spock looking at him with…that _was_ affection. Not pity. Not reluctance.

Spock kissed him again, and Jim touched his hands to the smooth blue shirt across his back, feeling his pulse beat along his spine. When Spock pulled away to slide down his body, Jim gasped out questions, concerns, _thoughts._

“Spock, I don’t understand—”

“Don’t think, Jim.” His underwear slithered down his thighs, and Jim felt his erection spring free, pointing at an angle towards the ceiling and curving just right into Spock’s palm. The heat of the touch was indescribable, perfect, and although his skin was dry, he barely noticed, noticed only that Spock tickled his spare hand across the inside of his thigh, seemingly fascinated with the blond hair that grew there.

He wondered if Spock was covered with thick black hair all over, and he grew even more excited at the knowledge that he would find out, and soon. And when Spock’s mouth closed over him, over the flushed red tip of his cock, Jim forgot to think, bucking into that warm cavern and hoping with half a mind that Spock wouldn’t choke.

Spock just opened his mouth wider and swallowed him deep, humming softly around the flesh in his mouth like he had all the time in the world, like he was used to the weight of the hardness in his hands. Jim would have been jealous if he’d had the mind to, but he lost all reason to when Spock shifted a hand to the curve of his ass, petting the base of his spine and then moving back down again.

“ _Spock_.”

Spock removed his mouth with a soft suck, and his lips were wet.

“Yes, Jim?”

“Please, Spock.” He didn’t have to say what he wanted, what he needed. As a telepath, Spock knew.

There was silence, and then Spock’s hand darted in a different direction, flicking across his opening with a teasing touch that was not hesitant, and not enough. When his finger dipped past the tight ring of muscle, bringing with it a heat and pressure that Jim craved with all of his being, he groaned, and his hand shot out to grab Spock’s shoulder hard enough to bruise.

The touch became a rhythm, but Jim wanted more. He groped blindly for his bedside table, finding the oil he kept there for when his fantasies begged to become reality, and he pushed the small container at Spock. There was the slightest hesitation—he felt it, he _knew_ —and then Spock laid a gentle kiss on his thigh, next to his twitching cock. His fingers resumed their motions, aided by the slickness now on his skin, and Jim tugged at his clothes until Spock obliged, jerking out of each garment too quickly for him to be entirely unaffected by their activities.

Jim grinned, his first real smile in a long time, and when Spock looked at him for permission, Jim simply dragged him up, pressing them together with everything he had. He didn’t have a chance to ogle Spock as he wanted to, didn’t have a chance to absorb what his mind knew was perfection, because the next instant Spock was pressing into him, hot and heavy and welcome. Jim groaned, his fingers scrambling for a hold on anything and finding only firm flesh beneath his hands, and as Spock moved, murmuring soft Vulcan words into his skin, Jim swore he had never felt such bliss, not with anyone, not even the few men he had known.

Spock growled at the thought he must have heard, moving faster, and Jim grunted at each thrust into his body, feeling his sweat stick to the dry skin above him, feeling their hearts beat strong, each to their own tempo.

When Jim came, it was with a grunt of effort and a sigh of relief, and when Spock stilled, it was with only the softest exhale against the spread of skin under his lips.

When Jim opened his eyes, it was to reality, and in that reality, Spock pulled away from him. Jim let him.

“Jim…”

“It’s okay, Spock.” Jim didn’t know what this had been; friendship, maybe, expressed in the way he had needed, but he had promised them both, silently, that he would let Spock go when he had to.

Spock didn’t go. Instead, he touched his lips again, and then his cheek.

“Jim, is this alright?”

“Is what?”

Spock hesitated. He never hesitated.

“May I stay?”

What joy there should have been at the soft question was drowned out by surprise.

“You want to?”

“I only wish to comfort you, Jim.” The words carried more weight than they had before, more severity, and Jim knew then that Spock didn’t mean just for one night.

Jim reached up and touched his cheek, unconsciously returning the gesture with all the affection he had.

“But what do you want, Spock?”

 _Wants are illogical_. But Spock didn’t say that. In fact, he looked ashamed when he answered, and answered honestly.

“I want you to be in love with me.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t everything Jim wanted. It wasn’t a vow of everlasting devotion, or even love. But it was want and affection, and he knew the rest would come. “Okay. You can stay.”

Spock wrapped his arms around him in response, both of them ignoring the mess as the lights dimmed.

Jim just closed his eyes and hoped that Spock would keep the nightmares at bay.

********

End


End file.
